Melinda stopped moving.
Everything clicked at once.
This was a setup.
This wasn't a date.
This wasn't even a dinner.
She turned—ready to run. But a wall of muscle blocked her retreat.
A man grabbed her by the shoulders, his hands like steel clamps.
"Hey—no, no—!" she started, but before the words finished, another man stepped in behind her, seizing her arms.
A hood dropped over her head.
Tight drawstring.
Pulled fast.
The world went black.
Voices swarmed around her—some barked orders, others jeered.
Doors slammed.
Men yelled.
Liquid sprayed—chemicals.
Zippers buzzed.
Velcro ripped.
Footsteps thundered.
Girls screamed.
Dresses being shredded. Replaced. Forced.
Melinda kicked out, thrashed, but she couldn't get free. The two men holding her didn't flinch. They moved her like she weighed nothing, dragging her down a corridor she couldn't see.
Then—suddenly—everything stopped.
The noise faded.
The hands let go.
She stumbled forward into silence.
The hood was yanked off.
Melinda spun instantly, arms out, ready to claw at the first person who tried to touch her again.
But no one was there.
She was alone.
A large room—plain, sterile. A single chair sat in the center, and draped across its back was a dress. Midnight blue. Velvet. Delicate gold straps glinting under the single ceiling light. A pair of matching heels sat just below it—her exact size.
Pinned above the chair, taped to the wall, was a white sheet of paper. The letters were bold, black, and center-aligned.
Change into this.
You're up first.
We aren't going to hurt you—unless we absolutely have to.
So just comply, sweetheart.
❤️
Melinda's chest rose and fell rapidly. Her throat tightened. Sweat bloomed along her spine.
She looked around again.
Still no one.
But she felt it—eyes, maybe cameras. Something to watch. Waiting.
Her fists clenched.
This wasn't a mistake.
This was planned.
And she was the main event.
Melinda stared at the dress.
It shimmered under the overhead light—midnight black velvet, shorter than what she had worn, slinkier. The neckline dipped deep, the back was nothing but a low swoop of bare skin, and the straps were barely-there threads of gold. It was elegant, yes... but built for one thing: display.
She turned it over in her hands, hoping—pleading—for any sign of cameras in the corners. None that she could see. The door was locked, no handle from her side. No voice on an intercom. Just the note still fluttering slightly from the force of her breath.
She sighed shakily and bent down, stepping out of her heels.
This wasn't about dignity anymore.
It was about survival.
She peeled off her dress, slipping into the one they left for her. The fabric clung to her, cold against warm skin. She faced the full-length mirror near the wall, smoothing it down, trying not to cry. Not yet.
What was happening?
Was she going to get out of this?
Or had she just walked herself into a death sentence wrapped in velvet?
Then—she heard it.
Applause.
Roaring. Cheering.
Her blood ran cold.
Through the muffled walls, a man's voice echoed—cocky, charismatic.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the voice rang out, booming through hidden speakers somewhere deeper in the building, "welcome to the 15th Annual Ladies Auction!"
Melinda's breath hitched.
"My name," the voice continued, "is Jonathan Walker, and I will be your host tonight. Thank you to all our esteemed guests—our dignitaries, our magnates, our royals... and, of course, our one and only elusive single billionaire bachelorette, who has so graciously decided to join us tonight for only the second time in this event's history..."
The crowd cheered louder.
He went on about exclusivity, about refinement, about their cream-of-the-crop selection. But Melinda barely heard any of it. Her ears rang.
She stood in the center of the room, trembling. Her hands twisted in front of her like they didn't belong to her anymore. She took a single, shallow breath.
Then the door opened.
Two men walked in.
Neither spoke.
They each took one of her arms and began to lead her out of the room and into a narrow corridor lit in clinical white. She didn't fight—not yet. Her mind was still frozen, trying to catch up with the moment.
But then—
She saw it.
A hallway off to the side, flooded with bright light. Not fluorescent—something warmer. Sunlight? Or an exit?
Her instincts flared. She yanked with everything she had, breaking one man's grip and ripping free of the other. Her heels clacked wildly as she took off sprinting down the open corridor, heart slamming in her chest.
From the other hallway, the announcer's voice grew louder, clearer:
"And first up tonight, we have the woman that all of you will want—but she may have only one Suitor... or Suitress... in mind."
A pause.
The audience murmured.
And just as he took a breath to say her name—
Melinda burst through a set of double doors at full speed, blinded by the flood of golden light pouring from above. Her heels hit wood. Not tile. Not concrete.
Floorboards.
A stage.
She raised her arms instinctively, blocking the light from her eyes, squinting against it. Her steps slowed. The world beyond the lights was a sea of dark silhouettes.
Then her vision cleared.
And she saw them.
Dozens—maybe over a hundred. Men in suits. Rows of them. Staring up at her like a product behind glass.
Eyes scanning her body like they owned it.
Hands fidgeting—wallets being readied, paddles on laps, lips wetting in anticipation.
A few leaned forward, murmuring to each other.
And then the announcer, still unseen, but all-too smug, spoke again:
"Melinda Carter, ladies and gentlemen. Is she not breathtaking?"
The crowd erupted into applause again.
Melinda just stood there, trembling.
She looked down at herself—the revealing dress, the gold heels. She looked out at them again.
And then she looked up.
Straight into the spotlight, hoping, praying, screaming inside—
Someone, anyone—
Help me.
—
Fifteen Minutes Earlier —
Brandi Brentford sat alone in her box seat—center view, close enough to smell the cologne of desperation around. Her fingers drummed on the black velvet armrest of her chair, legs crossed, expression unreadable.
Champagne sat untouched beside her.
She didn't come to drink.
She came for one thing.
The lights dimmed further. The crowd stirred.
Jonathan's voice poured through the sound system like honey over knives.
"And first up tonight, the woman that all of you will want—but who, perhaps, only has eyes for one. A dangerous game, isn't it?"
Brandi's lips curled into a humorless smile.
He was talking about Melinda. He knew it. But Brandi... She'd find out.
Her jaw clenched as she watched the guards move behind the curtain. A murmur traveled through the room as the energy shifted. Hungry.
The velvet curtain twitched.
Come on, baby, Brandi thought, already burning beneath the surface. Let me see you. Jonathan promised everything she wanted, everything she needed...
But when the curtain parted—
It wasn't a smooth walk.
It was chaos.
Melinda ran onto the stage, hands raised to shield her eyes, stumbling forward like she didn't know where she was.
Brandi sat up sharply, her body locking.
The room didn't care.
Applause broke out instantly.
Laughter. A few cheers. The men leaned in closer, their eyes devouring her. Hands began to lift from armrests—stretching toward her like they could grab her right off the stage.
Brandi stood.
She watched Melinda's chest rise and fall, rapid and panicked, and watched the way her heels teetered on the hardwood as she looked around, trying to understand what was happening.
She didn't know.
She'd really thought this was a date or a prank. Not a kidnapping, an auction where she was being called 'the top prize'
And now she was standing in front of a hundred men with money to burn, all seeing her as meat.
As prey.
As a prize.
Brandi's vision blurred red.
Her fingers gripped the edge of her seat as she watched Melinda flinch—two guards emerging from the wings, moving toward her. Too close. Too fast.
To touch her.
To present her.
Brandi's eyes snapped to them.
Don't touch her.
Her hand slid into her coat.
Fingers wrapped around cold steel.
She wasn't going to let this happen. Not to Melinda. Not like this.
Had she really signed up for this auction just to meet her? Just to get a night with her?
Why didn't she just call?
No—no, it didn't make sense. Melinda didn't know. She couldn't have known.
Which meant someone else did.
A thought sliced across Brandi's mind, sharp and sudden:
Jonathan.
She'd told him to find Melinda. Told him to dig deep. He knew Brandi's words—he knew that if she showed interest in someone that wasn't business, wasn't leveraged, wasn't a toy—it meant something.
And if he knew she cared about Melinda...
And still put her in that dress...
Under these lights...
In front of these men...
He was a dead man walking.
Brandi inhaled sharply, pushing the fury down. For now. She had a long list of people to question. To gut, if necessary. But that would have to wait.
Right now, she has to win.
Not in the way she'd imagined. Not in the way she hoped.
But in the only way left.
Jonathan, ever the showman, grinned from his shadowed podium above. His voice echoed across the polished room, dripping with smug charm.
"Melinda Carter, everyone. Is she not breathtaking?"
Applause.
And then—
"One million."
Brandi's voice rang out, cold and clear.
The room stilled. Like a gun had gone off.
Melinda's head jerked toward the sound, searching blindly beyond the lights. And Brandi saw it—the flicker of recognition in her eyes. The gasp she tried to hide.
A slow, small smile curved Brandi's lips.
Only for her.
You're not alone.
And I'm not letting them have you.
But before anything else could happen—
A man in the front row stood, red-faced and shaking with rage. He was one of the elite—old, bloated with money and ego. He pointed a thick finger at Brandi.
"She's not a guest! She's an escaped lot! Call security, she's trying to manipulate the auction!"
Brandi didn't hesitate.
She pulled the gun from her coat and fired.
The bullet tore through the man's foot with a sickening crunch, and he collapsed backward with a scream.
The room froze.
The guards took one step forward—then stopped.
Because Brandi was already pointing the barrel at them, eyes ice-cold and unblinking.
"Help him," she said evenly, gesturing toward the bleeding man. "Or get out of my fucking way."
They backed off.
No one else moved.
No one dared.
Because the rest of the room had finally realized what she already knew—
She wasn't just bidding.
She was talking.
Brandi calmly tucked her gun back into her coat and stepped further into the spotlight. Her black suit gleamed beneath the overhead glow, diamonds flashing on her ears and wrists. Her presence was thunder in silk.
The auction resumed.
More bids came in—but half-hearted. Shaken.
She shut them down with a flick of her fingers.
Two million.
Four.
Six.
Others dropped off one by one.
Until it was her... and him.
That same older man. Sleek. Serpentine. A collector. Everyone in the room knew his habits—if he won top prize, he never stopped at one. And once he had a woman, she never surfaced again.
Brandi's jaw tightened.
Jonathan's eyes flicked to her.
He knows.
And he knows better.
She raised her hand.
"eleven million."
Silence.
Even Jonathan paused.
The room held its breath.
This is it, Brandi thought, watching Melinda—her trembling, radiant body swaying under the heat of the lights, not knowing who to trust, not knowing what she was worth.
You're mine.
Jonathan raised his hand to begin the countdown—
Then the man across the room smirked.
"Eleven point five. cash"
Brandi didn't move.
But her heart thundered.
The war was just beginning.
—
Melinda stood frozen.
The low hum of the speakers echoed in her ears like a heartbeat—loud, oppressive, all-consuming. She couldn't hear anything else. Just static. Just her own breath, catching in her chest as the room grew thick with anticipation.
Then—
A voice. Familiar. Loud, but distant, swallowed by wealth.
"One million."
Men's heads turned. Murmurs rippled. A woman's voice? Firm. Steady. Too clear to make a mistake.
It was her. Brandi.
But no one said her name.
The man standing at the front—Jonathan, she presumed—cleared his throat and scoffed like the number wasn't worth his time.
And then the game began.
A man near the left—sleazy, gold rings stacked on thick fingers—raised a card lazily.
"Two million."
Melinda's head whipped toward him. Then another. "Four."
"Six."
The numbers climbed. Her panic climbed faster.
Each voice pulled her toward them like puppet strings.
She was no longer Melinda Carter.
She was a number.
She was bidding for stock.
And Brandi—
She still hadn't stepped into view.
Until—A voice sliced through the tension like a blade:
"Seven million."
Clear. Sharp. Commanding.
Melinda's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes locked on a tall silhouette stepping forward from the crowd, hand raised high.
Brandi Brentford.
She stood just beside the man who'd offered ten—towering, in black, with fire in her eyes. She didn't look at the crowd. She didn't look at Jonathan.
She looked only at her. The room stalled.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Then, with a sneer, the older man's hand shot up again. "Seven point five."
"Eight," he snapped. "And I'll pay double just to beat out the escaped lot with a gun."
A sick hush spread across the room. No one laughed.
The insult hung in the air like poison.
Melinda flinched. The two guards flanking her tightened their grip, possessive.
Please, Brandi
She didn't understand. Why was Brandi bidding on her?
Has this all been a setup?
The office visits. The note. The flowers. That message at the restaurant.
Had she known?
Had Susie known?
Had they both just been stringing her along for this—this sick prizefight?
Melinda's stomach twisted. Her knees nearly gave out.
But then Brandi raised her hand again.
"Eleven point five million," she said. "Cash."
Her voice was cold. Certain. Final.
Melinda's breath hitched.
Even Jonathan froze.
No one else moved. The older man dropped his hand, face pinched with fury, but silent.
And then:
"SOLD!" Jonathan called out, voice cracking under the weight of the number. "Eleven point five million. To Miss Brandi Brentford."
Melinda's head turned sharply toward him, eyes wide with disbelief. Terror. Confusion. Why?
She didn't realize she'd stopped breathing until she gasped—quiet, sharp.
Brandi was already moving.
The room no longer existed for her.
She strode toward the stage like a bullet through silk, her heels clicking with purpose. Her coat flared behind her as she passed Jonathan—she didn't speak to him, didn't slow—but her glare nearly knocked him off his platform.
Then she reached the stage.
And took Melinda's arm.
Firmly. But not harshly.
Melinda couldn't move. Could barely walk.
Still, Brandi guided her gently down the stairs, down the corridor, and back through the hallway she'd sprinted down in her panic. Back to the room. A sterile room. Just like the one with the velvet dress. The note. The empty mirror.
Brandi opened the door. Pushed it open. Led her inside.
Then closed it behind them. Hard.
Click.
Melinda turned on instinct, expecting yelling, rage, something terrifying—
But Brandi was still. Her chest rose and fell with barely restrained energy. She didn't move toward her.
Instead, she stepped around her.
A slow, deliberate circle. Her heels echoing softly on the tile.
She didn't speak. Just looked. At Melinda's hair. Her posture. Her eyes. The way her hands were still trembling.
And then— She exhaled. Covered her face with both hands. Pressed her palms into her eyes like she could squeeze the chaos out.
Brandi bit her lip hard. Then dropped her hands, eyes shining with something between fury and heartbreak.
"I'm sorry," she said hoarsely. "God, I'm so sorry."
Melinda didn't answer.
"I didn't plan this. I didn't want this. I didn't..." Brandi swallowed, trying to piece her words together. "I like you. A lot. I just wanted to get to know you. And now I've—Christ, I bought you. That's not how this was supposed to go."
Melinda stared at her, lips trembling.
Brandi looked down, chest heaving. "I don't know what to say to you right now. Except that I didn't know this was happening until I saw you up there. And I couldn't let anyone else touch you. I just couldn't."
She finally looked up again, voice quieter now.
"I spent eleven million dollars trying to undo a mistake I didn't make. And I don't even know how to talk to you right now because... you're still shaking."
Melinda blinked.
And the first tear fell.
Melinda didn't speak.
Her lips parted like she might. Like she could. But nothing came out—only a sharp, fractured sob that twisted into a gasp as she stumbled backward, shaking her head.
Brandi took a cautious step forward. "Melinda—"
But Melinda ran.
She turned and bolted for the other side of the room, barefoot now, barely able to keep her balance in the slick velvet dress as she crashed into a row of stacked chairs. One toppled with a metallic clang.
"Melinda, please—" Brandi called out, her voice steady, careful, her hands raised. "I'm not here to hurt you."
But Melinda didn't stop.
She grabbed a folding chair and shoved it toward Brandi. It skidded across the tile and slammed into her shins.
Brandi stopped short, inhaled through her nose.
"I get it," she said, gently. "You're scared. You should be. I would be too, but—"
Melinda picked up a small table and threw it at the wall. It shattered with a sharp CRACK.
Brandi flinched.
Then Melinda turned toward the mirror.
"Wait—don't—" Brandi started.
But Melinda shoved it.
The tall, full-length mirror tipped and came crashing down with a sickening, crystalline explosion—shards scattering across the floor.
A jagged piece struck Brandi in the shoulder, slicing through her coat.
"Shit!" she snapped, reeling back, clutching the wound.
Then the anger hit her—fast and hot, lashing from deep inside.
"Enough!" she shouted. Her voice cracked against the walls. "Calm the hell down before I give you something to be scared of."
Melinda dropped to the floor like she'd been hit—legs folded beneath her, arms wrapped around her body. Her chest heaved with gasping, panicked sobs. The dress slipped from one shoulder, exposing the bare line of her collarbone.
Brandi saw her—small. Crumpled.
Her fury drained instantly.
"Damn it..." Brandi breathed. "I didn't mean that."
She crouched slowly, ignoring the blood trickling down her arm.
"Listen," she said softly, the edge gone from her voice, replaced by something quieter. Raw. "I'll take you to my place. You can shower, rest. Change. Just... just get out of this place."
Melinda hiccuped through a sob, "I-I don't want to go with you. I want to go home."
Brandi's jaw tightened.
She didn't speak for a long second.
Then finally: "You owe me one night. One date. That's what this was supposed to be. I just want to try and fix things. Please, let me do that."
Melinda didn't answer.
So Brandi stood.
She picked up one of the fallen chairs, set it upright, and sat down. Crossed one leg over the other. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice came out soft—dangerously so.
"I just spent eleven million dollars. I expected something for it."
Melinda looked up, trembling.
"I thought... maybe you wanted this too," Brandi continued, eyes on the floor. "That there was a reason you were here. That maybe you told someone something that... connected us. That's why you were the top prize, right?"
Melinda shook her head. "I didn't sign up for this," she snapped. "I mean—I did, but it was a joke. A whim. I never thought it was real. I didn't think I'd win."
Her voice cracked at the end, and she covered her face again.
Brandi flinched like she'd been hit.
She looked away. Then, after a long breath, she said, "Fine."
She stood, walked to the door.
"I'll have someone bring you clothes," she said over her shoulder. "Stay here. I need to figure something out."
She stepped through the doorway. The click of the lock turning from the outside echoed like thunder in the silence that followed.
Melinda curled in tighter.
Still shaking.
Still sobbing.
—
Brandi didn't go down the hallway Melinda had escaped through.
She turned toward the other side of the venue—the corridor that led to the stage wings. Her footsteps echoed in the near-empty back hall, blood from her shoulder trailing in small, glistening dots behind her.
She found him just as he was slipping out from behind the curtain. Jonathan. Still smug. Still breathing.
Not for long.
Brandi didn't speak. She reached into her coat, pulled her gun—and with one swift, sickening swing, cracked the butt of it across his face.
CRACK.
Jonathan dropped with a yelp, hands flying to his nose, now pouring blood.
"What the hell were you thinking!?" Brandi roared.
He groaned, trying to sit up, only to find the muzzle of her gun pressing hard against his forehead.
"Don't move," she hissed, voice low, trembling with fury. "What the fuck did you think you were doing bringing her here?"
Jonathan coughed, gagged on blood. "What are you—what do you mean?"
Brandi leaned in, one boot planted between his knees. "I asked you for information on her. Because I liked her. Not because I wanted to buy her—like a toy on a shelf! She was nearly naked, terrified, and surrounded by sleazy bastards who would've ripped her apart if they could've. You let that happen."
"I—I thought—" Jonathan stammered. "She signed up on her own! I swear! And—and she matched everything you said you wanted. I figured... I thought you'd like the twist. That you'd get to own the woman you wanted so bad—"
Brandi let out a hollow, disgusted laugh and hit him again.
He yelped, falling sideways, his lip now split wide open.
"She's not a fucking prize," Brandi spat. "She's mine. And I mean that in the human way, not the sick, twisted shit your boss built this shit on."
She stood tall, seething, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "I'm going back to her now. But first—"
She turned toward a nearby guard, who stood like a statue, frozen by fear.
"You," she snapped. "Get her some clothes. Comfortable ones. Something soft. And if it smells like the warehouse, I'll burn the place to the ground with you in it."
The guard nodded rapidly and vanished.
Brandi detoured, heading up to the stage. A replacement auctioneer—some baby-faced kid with too much hair gel—was standing stiff at the podium.
"Five hundred thousand," someone called out from the crowd.
Brandi walked up behind the auctioneer.
And punched him in the jaw.
He crumpled like paper.
Gasps rippled through the room.
Brandi grabbed the mic from the stand and turned to the crowd, her voice calm but sharp as a blade.
"Evening, gentlemen," she said. "We're done here."
She waited.
No one moved.
"No more bids. No more girls. The auction is over. If any of you step near these women again, I will find out what happened to them, and I'll make sure it happens to you."
Silence.
"I'll donate another couple of millions to this pathetic excuse of a program, and you'll walk away grateful. Or I start pulling triggers, and we see who makes it out."
She smiled, soft and dangerous.
"Thank you for coming. Now get the fuck out."
Then she clicked off the mic and tossed it aside.
As she stepped off the stage, an older man in a custom tailored suit was waiting—arms crossed, jaw tight. The venue owner? The real puppet master.
Brandi stopped inches from him.
"I apologize for the drama," she said, smiling like she didn't just dismantle his operation. "I'll pay what I owe and a little extra. You get your money. They all go."
He scoffed. "You don't make the rules here."
She pulled out her phone.
Typed.
Sent.
"ten million, cash, here within the hour, on top of what I owe" she said, holding it up for him to see the confirmation. "No strings. Unless you try me."
She winked.
Then walked away, grabbing a med kit from a nearby station, knowing everyone had been watching the blood on her coat.
She made her way back to Melinda's room.
Knocked once.
Then opened the door—
And froze.